


Dumb

by Aithilin



Category: Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle
Genre: Fluff, Language, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 12:15:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6803767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fai has always been good with language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dumb

Fai was not stupid. 

He had always been good with words and sounds and working with his hands. He liked the Celesian style of magic that based its power on the shape of runes and writing— where his spells flowed faster than he could speak once he had some practice and food and warmth. When his hands had stopped shaking and he expected to be scolded or punished for dipping into the well of power that had existed just within reach (that he had once shared with his brother— whose energy he could still feel the deeper he delved). 

He liked picking his words and watching others choose theirs. He liked knowing that he had power behind a noise. Or a look. Or a smile.

He didn’t know why it was so shocking when he picked up some of Kurogane’s language. 

Fai was not stupid. And he had six months to listen to soldiers talk to each other, to their superiors, to their inferiors, to their enemies and friends and lovers and families. He had heard the language (or near enough for Kurogane’s variations to be brushed off as a quirk of accent) spoken in orders and speeches and threats and jokes. 

The sounds weren’t entirely alien to him, though. 

The first time he heard them, it was for those brief few hours that Mokona had been taken from them in Hanshin. When they had realised just what a useful little creature she was to them. When Kurogane had muttered and grumbled in strange, gibberish syllables that lacked the elegant rhyme and reason of Celesian. Where every tone seemed equal length. 

The first phrase he learnt in Yama was “please repeat that”. He never used it himself, but there was a group of young soldiers who used it often enough— all from a different part of the country, all too polite to tell their instructors and superiors to slow down and make sense. 

Fai had sat at the edge of the training fields when they started their training— listened to the instructions and lessons as he made his arrows. He listed to the older soldiers— scarred and drunk— around the fires joke with each other and tell bawdy stories. He lisoted to Kurogane warn them off, threaten them (recognised the easy claim on him, because no one was stupid enough to challenge a man like Kurogane when a clear claim was made). 

Fai sat, and listened, and practised in his own way— a smile and constant movement of hands drawing attention away to the way his throat moved as his tongue found new positions and silently tested strange sounds with barely a noise passing his lips (pressed the tip flat to that fleshy gum above the front teeth, or the tell tale thrust forward as he worked his way around a clumsy “ku” noise). No one noticed the strange blond man, working his hands faster than the other fletchers and occasionally clicking his tongue against his teeth or the roof of his mouth. 

Fai was not stupid. 

He learnt languages before. Celesian was like Valerian— the same basic sounds and shapes of the words. Different writing, different words, he had been clumsy with them at first. But he could understand his king when they first met. He could understand the message and the promise, even if the nuances were lost on him until he was older. He had picked it up easily enough, lost his accent that made short words harsher, long words trailing off with a habitual melody. He had learnt the precise military noises and courtly lies. He had lost his accent somewhere between learning to smile and learning that alcohol numbed his pain. 

In the end, Kurogane’s language wasn’t too different. New sounds, new words. But it was all the context. A soldier threatening another over a lost knife made no sense at first— until he learnt to see where they were gesturing, who was standing there, who was involved and not just watching. Jokes made more sense when he learnt to see the way hands moved and the audience could fill in the blanks. 

The orders were the easiest to understand. 

Kurogane glaring at their commanding officer for even bothering to order them around was easier to understand. 

It was in Japan that Fai started to learn the writing. 

After they had settled. After the kids had finally found their peace. After Suwa was less and less a distant dream and Fai was called upon to navigate the court for Kurogane. 

Kurogane wasn’t surprised when Fai spoke to him in his own language. He wasn’t surprised when Fai teased him for grumbling about Mokona taking off with Tomoyo and her ladies. Kurogane simply huffed and muttered.

“Took you long enough, idiot.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You’ve been listening to me since that Yama place. You could have said something and saved me time.”

“I like listening to my Kuro-wan bark and growl.”

“Shut up.”

Kurogane was not stupid. 

He had learnt all the flowery poems and writings and art that his mother had wanted him to learn. He had picked up deceit and lies in Tomoyo’s court— and the silly things girls called each other. He had seen men and soldiers move through their partners with harsh words and harsher rejections when it became pressing to find women to carry on a family. He had learnt the silly words of affection and love, and the lies that trailed on all of that nonsense. 

He had heard Fai speak his own languages— those harsh, low sounds. Where tone and subtle shifts changed whole meanings. He had heard Fai mutter in his sleep. Heard the blond practice sounds that were not familiar and watched his hands trace characters like a child. 

Kurogane had seen Fai’s mind work. He had heard the way Fai spoke and lied and smiled while he did. He had seen the way that Fai’s language— languages— influence his thoughts. He had heard that accent— harsh and unforgiving— cut into his name with each slightly off “ro” when Fai had hated him. At the time, he had thought the strange, angry tones and harsh sounds suited Fai’s mood. 

There were times when Mokona was too far away— taken off by children who were instantly enamoured with her more often than not— or worlds were some of Mokona’s magic was dulled. 

There were worlds where Fai’s accent was more pronounced. More worlds where Kurogane could see him scribble out notes in those flowing, lovely, letters he read. 

But they had yet to come to a world where Fai’s language seemed closest to the default. Where those sounds spoken around them were too foreign for Kurogane’s ear, where Syaoran would light up with the chance to practice whatever Fai had taught him. 

“Make me.” Fai always taunted, when told to stop talking. When they had settled in Japan and Fai still scribbled out notes and lists in his own writing to translate later. 

When they were preparing for the long road to Suwa ahead and Kurogane noticed that Fai stopped scribbling out his notes in his own language. 

“Teach me, mage.” Kurogane once said, indicating the page Fai had been working on. 

“It’s just a plan, Kuro-sama. I’ll write it out again for you later.”

“No, teach me your language.”

Kurogane would always relish those few moments when he could still surprise Fai.

“Why? It’s a dead language.”

“You speak it.”

“I speak Japanese.”

“And your language. Teach it to me.”

“Why?”

There were plenty of practical uses for a foreign language: coded messages-- letters to share plans and ideas that could never be broken by enemies— were the the first things to come to mind. Plenty of uses for a dead language with only one teacher in the world. 

Plenty of ways he could use Fai; take advantage of his skills, keep it practical, implement a tool at his disposal. 

Kurogane was not stupid. He could see those thoughts well enough, knew that Fai’s mind, even now, went that way first. He was a tool, useful, skilled to serve the plans of others. A pawn. 

“Because I love you, idiot. And this is your stupid language. So teach me.”


End file.
